You Were Phenomenal
by moriartyisme
Summary: Love is said to conquer all, even death. From first kiss, John was deeply, head over heels in love. And he was okay with that. However, when Sherlock becomes sick, even John cannot stop the impending doom lurking over Sherlock's head. What will John do when his world is falling down in ruins around him?


**A/N: Woah I apparently love writing Johnlock now! You know what, I'm okay with that! So this is a prompt based off a post by sherolck and pininglock on Tumblr, so credit for a small part of the idea goes to them. A TON of this is me though, so please don't steal. Thank you!**

**WARNING: Major Character Death (Mwahahaha)**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Except my own writing. Don't sue me please. I'll give you donuts instead.**

* * *

It was amazing. More than that, in actuality it was the most splendid, wonderful, _perfect_ kiss. It was the kiss that could stop time. In that moment, everything felt _right_. Everything was in place, as it was supposed to be. John let himself be enveloped in the kiss, and felt it had ended all too soon when Sherlock pulled away.

They had just finished up a case. Government-grade, Mycroft level. Top priority, which of course made Sherlock want to do it even less. But John had made him, and, begrudgingly, Sherlock completed the task. Quite simple, really. Easy. Predictable. What he did not expect, however, was being caught on the other side of London, outside of a simple diner, its pale glow from the lights inside illuminating the sidewalk. Both he and John were slightly hunched over, having run quite a while to catch up with the hacker. But they did. At that moment, John looked up and saw Sherlock staring at him. John smiled. "Why do you always have to choose the runners?"

Sherlock grinned, though still slightly out of breath. "As I recall, _you_ are the one that made me take this case. Whose fault is it really?" Sherlock's remaining breath left him as the light caught John's eyes and face in a way such that Sherlock had not seen, or cared to notice, before. His feelings for John had been growing over the past year, so subtly that at first he didn't even realize what was happening. But very, very slowly, Sherlock fell for John. And, for once in his life, Sherlock did not know something. He did not know if John liked him back. But, in that moment, standing on the pavement, looking into John's eyes, Sherlock didn't care. And so, ever so gently, he leaned towards John, marveling in John's magnificence, and kissed him. The slightest bit of shock came when John kissed him back, but was quickly diminished. The consulting detective finally had the army doctor- _his_ army doctor- all to himself.

After they were finished, John just gaped in that silly sort of way that signified pleasure but at the same time shock. "So it was that good, huh?" Sherlock grinned, but the nervousness he felt couldn't be contained, and a slight bit of it peeked out when he uttered those words.

John's mouth was still wide open until he processed the words that came out of Sherlock's mouth. Then he laughed. It was a giddy laugh, and it filled up the entire street, reverberating off the shop front walls. He looked up and down the length of Sherlock, as if trying to process what was _real_. If the man standing in front of him was just a messed up hallucination; his dream couldn't actually be coming true. But it was. And thusly he replied "Very."

* * *

When they finally got back to the flat, Sherlock figured it best if he were to go to bed. Heading to his room, he was stopped by John's voice. "Sherlock… do you… would you mind if I slept in your bed tonight?"

Sherlock blanched. "You… want to sleep with me? So soon?"

John's face turned bright crimson. "NO! No. Oh God no… I meant, just sleep next to you, like in the same bed. We wouldn't… I mean… it wouldn't…" John stammered on until Sherlock finally cut him off.

"Oh. Well, sure John. Feel free to join me whenever. Goodnight." With that, Sherlock walked over to John, pecked him on the forehead, and walked into his bedroom.

After watching the telly for an hour or two, John made his way into Sherlock's bedroom, still in disbelief. He climbed into bed next to Sherlock, who slightly stirred, but quickly went back to dreaming. Dreaming what, John did not know. Maybe another case being solved through his intelligence. Or maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was dreaming about the kiss the two shared. God, that would be wonderful. John loved Sherlock with all of his being, but had never been sure of Sherlock's own feelings towards him. This was the loveliest and most perfect result that he could imagine. Lying in bed, John smiled. It wasn't just any ordinary smile, but a smile that showed his relief and love for the man lying next to him. The smile didn't stay at the lips, though. It traveled up to his eyes. If anyone was watching John at this moment, they would have been astounded. The happiness and love and pure untainted joy present in just his eyes were enough to make it seem that the world was okay just the way it was.

* * *

The contrast was incredible. And incredible in the most horrific way. John's eyes these many years later were bloodshot and swollen from all the crying behind closed doors. All that lay in John's eyes now was despair that none should ever have to bear witness to and terrible pain. He sat in the waiting quarters in the hospital. The doctor spotted him and briskly walked over. John couldn't remember this one's name. There had been too many. Sherlock had been in and out an uncountable amount of times, to many hospitals as well. No one could pinpoint exactly what was wrong with him. It had tainted John, and made him into a man built with pent up sorrow that he could not show in front of Sherlock. He had to remain strong for Sherlock. To hell with the consequences of what all of this was doing to him, as long as he kept Sherlock oblivious, he was content enough to live with himself. In the deep, dark crevice at the back of his mind, he knew Sherlock could tell that John was destroying himself. Sherlock just pretended not to notice. He was in enough pain as it was already. One more stressor would most certainly _not_ be good, for whatever it was he had. "Doctor Watson? You're Doctor Watson, correct?" _Shit._ John had been too engrossed in his thoughts to return to modern day and realize that the doctor walking over towards him had actually started speaking.

"Oh. Yes, sir. I am. Did you figure out what was wrong with Sherlock?" John's voice almost cracked, but it hardened just in time to put on an air of strength.

The doctor's eyes were emotionless, but his tone was saddened with a touch of soothing. Very convincing. "The test results are in, and conclusive this time. As you know, we had to do several tests to ensure that our results were accurate. It appears that William Sherlock Scott Holmes has stage four brain cancer. I'm sorry, I don't think he's going to make it." The doctor's apologies were lost behind John's final sob of desperation. All these times, all these visits to the hospital, John had managed to keep a hardened exterior. He put on a show. But now it was impossible. He couldn't do it. He broke down.

* * *

Sherlock died just months later. At the funeral, many came. Of course, Sherlock's family came. Numerous of those he helped came. The Homeless Network, or at least part of them came. Honestly, John did not care in the least. None of them knew Sherlock the way _John_ knew Sherlock. Not even Sherlock's parents or Mycroft. John had months to perfect his attitude for the funeral. He forced himself not to weep, not even when the casket was being lowered into the ground. Funny, how it was brain cancer that got him in the end. The very thing Sherlock cherished the most (besides, perhaps, John) turned on him and Sherlock wound up dead because of it. The fucking irony of it all is what grated John the most. But he didn't let it show. At the funeral, John was passive, accepting the apologies and I-wish-you-wells with a small, barely perceptible nod. When people came up to give him a hug, he would hug back, but he felt not entirely there. John Watson, army doctor, blogger, boyfriend of the best Consulting Detective to have ever lived, was hollow.

Finally, they all left. Mycroft was the last to leave John behind. He offered to give John a ride back to the flat, but John bluntly refused. He needed time to himself. Just him and Sherlock. One last time. One last adventure. But this time, there would be no kisses afterwards. There would be no sweet caresses or sleeping next to each other. The cold, hard ground separated the two now, and nothing would change that.

* * *

The sun shone, which was odd for England. John, who usually loved seeing sunshine peeking through the ever dismal dark clouds, felt an incredible vehemence towards the sun. How _dare_ it shine on a day such as today, one filled with such sorrow and loss that it should be cowering behind the clouds. How _dare_ it come out when Sherlock was gone from this Earth. Sherlock liked the sun as well, how it felt on his skin, how John's eyes became transformed in the sun. At least, that is what he always told John.

John gazed upon Sherlock's freshly created grave and upon his tombstone:

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

To many he was known for his brains, to others for his heart

19 July 1976- 24 May 2020

The greatest adventure is the one no one can recount: Death

John created the tombstone. He knew Sherlock would appreciate it. He also knew how others would most likely disagree with the first statement, but John knew it simply to be true. Sherlock had opened himself up to John, and John could see that, behind the walls of the Sherlock constantly belittled and bullied by his peers, was the kind, caring person John knew and loved. He still loved. Though Sherlock had left this world, John still loved him. It was the one thing that the bonds of death could not stop.

* * *

John stared at the tombstone, still trying to keep up the indifferent façade, until he couldn't anymore. He turned inconsolable, hugging the tombstone and crying his eyes out. He didn't care who heard him. The worst cries are those of one who lost his or her true love, and John Hamish Watson was no exception. He cried until he could not physically produce any more tears, and then cried a little longer.

Finally, after hours of lying next to the grave and hugging the tombstone, John stood. He was shaky at first, and looked at the grave. "Sher.. Sherlock" he began, clearly trying to form coherent thought, "this… it has worked once before. Let's give it another shot, shall we? I miss you, Sherlock. I miss your cocky grin and your brilliant deductions and your bravado. I miss going on adventures with you and lying next to you and… and… _dammit _Sherlock, I just miss you. Your eyes, your hair, that wonderful brain of yours, I miss it all. And I want… no, I _need_ you to come back. Please Sherlock. You have defeated death before. I just need you to do it one last time. For me. You asked me, all those years ago, that night we first kissed, if the kiss was 'really that good'. It was phenomenal. _You_ were phenomenal. I just said 'very' but I meant so much more. In that 'very' contained all of the words I choked back during all of your investigations, all of the comments about you and how wonderful and perfect you were. How many times I was so close to saying I love you, but never did. You took the first step, Sherlock. You are… were brave. And kind. And bloody brilliant. But, Sherlock, most importantly you were _mine_. And I was yours. I need you, Sherlock. I have no idea what to do next, without you. It's impossible, this is. I just keep waiting for you to strut in the door to the flat, a container of some sort of body part in one hand and a Bunsen burner in the other. It just, doesn't seem real. You don't seem real Sherlock. Please, Sherlock. Come back. Figure out some way. Because I love you, and I don't know what else to do. Please."

John stared at the stone, willing it to do something, _anything_, but of course it didn't. Sherlock was really and truly gone. No more gimmicks, no more tricks. He was gone forever and eternity. John walked out of the graveyard, lonely and thinking back on all of the wonderful adventures he had with Sherlock. All the crazy things they had done. All the things they would never do again. John looked back into the graveyard back to the solitary stone, wishing that somehow this was all a dream. But it wasn't, and John had to move on. John didn't look back anymore. He got into the cab he had flagged down and rolled down the windows, the wind rushing onto his face. Suddenly he heard laughter. He looked over to where Sherlock would sit after a case, but found empty space. It was just some kids playing outside. At this moment, John felt such a bone-crushing sense of loneliness that all else was lost. John Hamish Watson was truly lost without his Consulting Detective, and in his heart was a large space that would never be full again.


End file.
